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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819107">And I'll do it all with you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLoveDoritos/pseuds/LiveLoveDoritos'>LiveLoveDoritos</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mentalist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Babies, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Future, Grief, Love, Marriage, Nightmares, Therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:00:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLoveDoritos/pseuds/LiveLoveDoritos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Teresa tells him one night. “He isn’t Charlotte.” </p><p>Jane sticks his hands in his pocket, they twitch for a cigarette. “I know.” He says. “I just-“ </p><p>She wraps her arms around him because she understands. Because she always understands. Because it’s Lisbon, Teresa, his wife. “I know honey.” She whispers softly, kisses his rugged cheek. </p><p>He buries his face in the crook of her neck and cries.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Jane &amp; Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And I'll do it all with you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Sometimes-” Jane says. </p><p>Lisbon turns around, a murder file in her hand, a smudge of lipstick on her collar. She looks at him with expectant brown eyes. </p><p>Jane sticks his hands in his pockets and looks outside at the darkened parking lot. “Sometimes I miss him.” </p><p>…</p><p>She has her arms wrapped around him. her hair smells like cinnamon and strawberries. Jane feels warm with her there, not alone anymore. </p><p>“Do you miss him a lot?” She asks. </p><p>Jane thinks. </p><p>“No.” He says. “Only on bad days.” </p><p>“Oh.” She says. Jane can feel her shift nervously. </p><p>“Don’t worry,” Jane says, and presses a kiss against her hair, rubbing his hand over hers. “I don’t have a lot of them anymore.” </p><p>…</p><p>They’re outside in the after the warmth of a hot summer day, drinking tea Jane prepared. Chitchatting, watching the sun go under. the forest chirps, rustles with the wind. </p><p>Lisbon is beautiful, he thinks, staring at her. She put her hair up, and switched her work outfit for a red summer dress. You can see the brown specks in her eyes when the last golden rays of the sun hits them just right. She is exquisite. Flawless. </p><p>“What?” She chuckles awkwardly, sipping her overly hot tea. </p><p>“Nothing much.” He smiles. “You just look beautiful today.” </p><p>She huffs out a breathy laugh and looks away, blushing furiously. “Oh shush.” She says, smiling. </p><p>“It’s true.” Jane says, and Lisbon good naturedly swats at his arm. </p><p>…</p><p>“Will you marry me?” He asks. Cries. Wants. </p><p>“Yes.” She answers. Her eyes are diamonds, tears unshed. </p><p>He kisses her, and they melt together like they always have. </p><p>…</p><p>She’s not his first love, but she will be his last. </p><p>…</p><p>She’s dressed in white. The promise of a new future. Of a life filled with happiness and love and lazy mornings and argues over dinner. Lipstick smudged against the corner of his mouth, eyerolls, a warm hand in his. She’s the beautiful means to a horrible end. She’s the one that broke his loneliness, broke through his shield and <i> found</i> him. and <i>cared</i> about him. and <i>loved</i> him.</p><p>He knows she’s too good for him, knows that it’s selfish to know what she smells like, knows her intimately, and knows all of her secrets. </p><p>He told her so, before. She isn’t bound to him. he doesn’t deserve her. </p><p>She said. “I don’t care.” and kissed him. </p><p>Now a ring is on her finger and her name isn’t Teresa Lisbon anymore, it’s Teresa Jane and she’s his and he’s hers and it makes his heart swell, his love for her increase. </p><p>She’s his wife. </p><p>So he asks her, staring at the crowd of people dancing. “How’re you feeling?” </p><p>She turns to him with a big smile on his face. “I am so happy.” </p><p>He thinks about it for a split second, feels something raging inside him, something big, something shy, but amazing, </p><p>He realizes he’s happy too. Very happy. </p><p>“Me too.” He responds, matching her smile, his gut churns with warmth for her. “Me too.” </p><p>…</p><p>She places her hand on her stomach and, </p><p>Jane can’t breathe. </p><p>“You are?” He asks, he can’t keep from smiling. </p><p>“I am.” She whispers. </p><p>…</p><p>Her belly grows. The doctor says everything is good and healthy. </p><p>Jane smiles, holds Teresa’s hand, and together they listen to the heartbeat. </p><p>…</p><p>Teresa places a hand on her growing stomach, questioning a witness while Jane messes with their cat, and makes himself tea without asking. </p><p>“Excuse my husband,” Teresa says, shaking her head at him.</p><p>…</p><p>“Charlotte, when it’s a girl,” Teresa says hopeful, thinking that this will make him happy. </p><p>Which it does, it shows that she clearly cares about what he wants too, but he smiles and shakes his head no. “Our daughter should have her own name. but Charlotte will always be her big sister and nothing will change that.” </p><p>“Okay.” She nods. “Okay.” </p><p>…</p><p>Teresa orders him around in the middle of the night to get her McDonalds. A sprite and two large fries with a plain hamburger. </p><p>Jane rolls his eyes at her, but goes anyways. </p><p>…</p><p>When she can’t tie her shoes anymore he does it for her. </p><p>“I hope our baby has your hair.” Teresa sighs, running her hand through his golden curls. </p><p>There’s a pang of guilt deep in his stomach. The image of his daughter, blood around her gold curls like a cursed halo flashes briefly in front of his eyes. </p><p>He swallows. “And I hope they have yours.” </p><p>…</p><p>“I hope our baby has your eyes,” Jane tells her softly. “I don’t want them to look like me. I don’t want them to look like Charlotte.” </p><p>Teresa doesn’t stir, just keeps on breathing quietly. Jane buries his nose into the crook of her neck, moves his hand over her stomach, and breathes in her scent. </p><p>…</p><p>“We should get a dog,” Jane says, throwing another bag of diapers into the cart. </p><p>Teresa chuckles in a tone that means ‘never gonna happen.’ And keeps pushing the cart forward. </p><p>…</p><p>“I love you.” He says. </p><p>The snow reflects in her eyes. It crunches underneath their feet. </p><p>“I love you too.” She says and takes his hand. </p><p>…</p><p>Riley Jane enters the world bright red and screaming. His fists clenched tight, his tiny chest falling and rising to get as much air in his lungs as he possibly can. </p><p>The first thing Jane thinks when his son, swaddled and quiet finds his way into his eager, waiting arms is, thank God he doesn’t look like Charlotte. </p><p>He tells Teresa. “He doesn’t look like Charlotte.” </p><p>An odd look crosses her face, and she furrows her eyebrows a little. She only sighs. </p><p>Jane keeps smiling. </p><p>…<br/>
It is an odd thing. He is father to a living child and a child that exists still only in his memories. He does not believe in life after death, so he does not believe she is anywhere else than in his mind, and in the stories he tells about her to Teresa, who is always willing to hear. </p><p>Jane lost her baby clothes, (they burned in the fire) and Jane has nothing tangible of her left. Just the laughter in his dreams, and her small hand in his. </p><p>Her gravestone brings her little closure. And with each passing warm breath of his son, his small shrieks, his gasping mouth, and his shining tears, he misses his daughter more and more. </p><p>…</p><p>“Charlotte hated grapes too.” He tells Riley, “she preferred strawberries.” </p><p>Riley looks at him with blue eyes. Charlotte’s eyes. Jane’s eyes. “Da.” He shrieks and spits the grapes back out. </p><p>…</p><p>Jane rocks him back and forth. “Charlotte had a hard time sleeping through the night as well.” He says lowly.</p><p>Teresa stands in the door opening, arms crossed and tired. “Must be a genetic thing then.” She yawns. </p><p>Jane cracks a smile. “Definitely.” He says. </p><p>…</p><p>Riley didn’t crawl at seven months. Charlotte did. </p><p>Riley likes mashed potatoes, charlotte didn’t. </p><p>Riley hates toy cars and prefers barbie dolls. Charlotte loved both. </p><p>…</p><p>Teresa tells him one night. “He isn’t Charlotte.” </p><p>Jane sticks his hands in his pocket, they twitch for a cigarette. “I know.” He says. “I just-“ </p><p>She wraps her arms around him because she understands. Because she always understands. Because it’s Lisbon, Teresa, his wife. “I know honey.” She whispers softly, kisses his rugged cheek. </p><p>He buries his face in the crook of her neck and cries. </p><p>…</p><p>Sometimes he still catches that small gleam of her eyes in his son, and sometimes his dark curls make him dream of golden locks of hair, soft baby powder and the way she played so dearly with her barbie dolls. </p><p>“You are safe, you are loved and you are wise.” He murmurs against Riley’s ear like a mantra, like it’s the only thing keeping him from plummeting into the ground and dying. For a moment, just a moment; he pretends it is Charlotte.</p><p>He repeats it over and over again. </p><p>…</p><p>Teresa forces him to attend at least one therapy session. When he had protested heavily she only glared at him from over her dinner plates, placing them back into the cabinets. </p><p>“Don’t knock it until you try it.” She says, and then gives him a kiss on his cheek.</p><p>The nightmares of Red John start to frequent again as the therapist roots through the years of unprocessed trauma. Trying to weave her hands through the intricate knots of his emotions. </p><p>He’s choking, dying. There’s an extremely hollow feeling in his chest as his old pain resurfaces again, gaping like a freshly cut wound. “Please,” he begs. “How do I get rid of this.” </p><p>The therapist says, “we cannot undo what is done, all we can do is help you work through it.” </p><p>He goes back the following week. </p><p>…</p><p>Riley turns one. He is small for his age, slender little arms, slender little legs. He still can’t walk. He stands on wobbly feet, dangling on the hands of his mother as she helps him walk with a smile. Jane watches it with a smile, feet propped up on the table, a mug of tea in his hand. </p><p>The ticking of the antique clock Jane begged Teresa to get echoes through the room like a Chinese gong. Low morning sun filters through the blinds of their home, lighting up Teresa’s and Riley’s hair in vibrant gold. </p><p>Teresa looks up to smile at him, and Jane immediately feels better.</p><p>…</p><p>With the help of his therapist and some prescribed anti-depression medication, life becomes easier. Jane learns to no longer compare his son to his late daughter. Lets Riley be his own person, full, and alive. He is not Charlotte. He will never be Charlotte. </p><p>He still has nightmares. Flashes of bloody smiles and his late wife and daughter covered in them. They are alive- and Jane isn’t fast enough. They slip through his fingers like butter. He hears Red John laughing but cannot see him. </p><p>Other times, he does not dream about Angela or Charlotte but dreams about Teresa and Riley. Red John, no longer a human, but something that resembles a monster with wings. </p><p>He is too late. He is always too late. </p><p>But then, when he awakes. Heart pounding against his ribcage, his blood flaring with panic. Teresa is there. She wraps her arms around him, murmurs soft encouragements in his ear, and presses soft kisses against his jaw, his cheek, his nose. </p><p>“It’s alright, Patrick.” She whispers softly, her voice silky and breathy. “It’s okay. I’m still here. You still got me and Riley.” </p><p>And that helps too. </p><p>… </p><p>Two more years go by, and Riley is three and a half now. Almost a month older than Charlotte ever got to be. A lifetime lost of quirks and habits he never got to see, a personality he never got to know. She is a ghost now, twelve years old, and dead. </p><p>“Daddy?” Riley toddles over, pressing the barbie doll in Jane’s hand. “Do you want to play with me?” </p><p>Jane stares too long before he swallows back his tears, carding a hand through his son’s dark hair. “Sure, honey.” </p><p>…</p><p>Riley turns four and Jane is completely in the dark. He only knows how to care for children under three years old. He is in uncharted territory. Like an unknown galaxy, where deep space and only darkness rules. </p><p>When he voices these thoughts to Teresa she just shakes her head and smiles warmly like the August sun, “Pat,” her hand reaches for his, “We are in this together remember? You and me, we’re partners, and we’ll figure it out like we always do!” </p><p>The heavy feeling in Jane’s stomach dissipates like sunshine breaks through clouds. “Yeah.” He says. The corners of his mouth tug upwards in a smile in resemblance to that of Teresa. “Yes.” </p><p>He’ll always have her. </p><p>…</p><p>Teresa gives birth to their second child somewhere in May. Another boy. His eyes are dark as the night, his hair as brown as Teresa’s. This time, he does not think about how the child looks like Charlotte. This time he cries because God, he is like a carbon copy of Teresa. </p><p>And like his wife, the boy is beautiful, so, so beautiful. </p><p>Teresa is wrecked, absolutely wrecked. </p><p>“We’re tying your tubes.” She snarls as she tries to shift in her bed, but there is no real menace in her voice, so Jane merely smiles. </p><p>“Fair enough.” He says, staring down at the small miracle in his arms. The baby coos softly in his sleep, and Jane can’t resist pressing a kiss against his wrinkly skin. </p><p>… </p><p>“And they lived happily ever after,” Jane concludes, shutting the book, “Now, bedtime.” </p><p>“Awww, dad. Just one more story.” Riley begs, his curly hair peeks out from underneath his blankets, and Jane stifles a laugh. </p><p>“Fine.” Jane gives in, “but you better not complain about being tired tomorrow.” He wags a faux-threatening finger. </p><p>“No daddy, I won’t I promise,” Riley says in earnest, even though Jane knows he will, he grabs the book anyway. </p><p>… </p><p>Jane quietly enters his youngest son’s room, where Teresa is standing over the crib, watching him sleep. </p><p>“Hey,” He whispers. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey. Is Riley asleep?” She asks. </p><p>Jane snakes an arm around her middle and kisses her cheek. “Out like a light.” </p><p>“That’s good.” She says, and Jane nods, and they lapse into a comfortable silence as they watch their youngest sleep fitfully. His fists are curled next to his head, his chest rises and falls with each small little breath. </p><p>“We make beautiful babies, don’t we,” Jane whispers out of the blue. </p><p>Teresa laughs.</p>
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